As the Snow Melts
by greeneyedkc
Summary: TAKES PLACE AFTER SEASON FIVE. The men of the Night's Watch felt a chill down their spine as they watched the blood leave his body as Jon Snow crawled from the ashes of his funeral pyre. Full of questions and rage, he must now find out who he is.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Trial _by Fire_

Before the icy winds could steal the warmth from his body, they began to talk.

"Can't risk it, milord," one said gruffly.

"Burn 'im," called another.

"It seems we must," pronounced the new Lord Commander, Alisser Thorne.

They built the pyre and Olly watched. The cold steel of the knife still burning into his palm. Revenge was supposed to be sweet, but bile burned the back of his throat. Treacherous lines were blurred that night. But _his_ words were still true: _Winter is coming._ The dead were marching towards them and Castle Black was better off without Jon Snow. It would have to be.

As they lay the young man on the pyre-in the same spot where Mance Rayder had been both burned and shot-all talking on the wall or North of it stopped. The Crows of Castle Black sat perched, watching sparks turn to flaming embers, filling the courtyard with smoke, and finally building to a steady all-consuming flame. They were compelled to see the bastard burn.

It takes a long time for a body to return to ashes, the smell of burning flesh and hair choking down the voyeurs' throats-usually. But this fire smelled mostly of oak and birch, and only a little acrid-like the smell of clothes drying too near to a camp fire. The banality of the scent was inappropriate and unsettling to the few Crows who mourned the loss of their Lord Commander.

And as the fire died down, a shape seemed to form from the shadows. From the very center of the charred remains of the pyre crawled a naked man with black hair and pale flesh. On shaking legs, he slowly stood in view of all at Castle Black. Only pink angry scars remained of the attempted execution by a jury of his peers. The sound of silence was broken by the cry of a wolf-a dire wolf.

**Please let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Sanna Black Slytherin & Rhaegar: I didn't realize this was something that already existed n the fandom—I had to Google RLJ. But, I should have known.

The Miss America: Good point! I have added their perspective in this chapter. Thank you (:

To everyone else that reviewed/commented: Thank you! I appreciate the feedback and interest. Keep on letting me know what you think. I had originally thought that the first chapter would be my last. But, I keep worrying the edges of the story and more seems to unravel—and your positivity is making it seem worthwhile! Also, I have a quick question for y'all: I'm thinking of keeping all posts relatively short, but do you think that this might (ultimately) result in a slow read?

Chapter 2: (Fun)eral

Half of the men hated Jon Snow; it was only a matter of time before their hatred bubbled over. Looking back, it seems the other half had underestimated the hatred their brothers had for Snow—or overestimated their loyalties. But there was nothing anyone could do now.

A log gave a loud _crack!,_ splitting open. Like so many stone gargoyles, no one flinched. _What have they done?_ Tollett silently wondered, and he was not alone. For every snap and cackle of the flame, another lament for the lost Lord Commander went unsaid. Only the angry roars of northern wind and funeral pyre cried.

Fiery shadows painted a traitor's cross. The whole of the Wall was forced to bare witness to Jon Snow's funeral. And, when finally the fire died down, a man crawled from the ashes; a phoenix nakedly reborn from the embers, paralyzing all who had stood to watch a dead man burn.

The fire, a swailing of the underbrush that normally cluttered his mind, cleansed his thoughts. The icy cold of the North to which he had been born raked icy fingers across his naked body still hot from the flames. When finally Jon Snow looked around, Castle Black stared back in shock. They gathered around the charred remnants of what should have been his funeral pyre.

A small movement caught his attention in a dark corner. He saw the Red Woman as she watched from the shadows. He could hear an echo of the warning he had received on two separate occasions— _you know nothing, Jon Snow._ It seemed he really did not know anything. He was brimming with questions. Maybe the Priestess had answers. But, among the many questions he had, one thing was certain: Jon Snow did not feel welcome among his brothers anymore.

Before he or any of the men in the Night's Watch could think to speak, another howl ripped through the cold. And then that howl was joined by another, deeper cry. At the gate a woman called out for help and the sounds of a boy could be hear mixing with the dire wolves' duet.


	3. Chapter 3

Sanna Black Slytherin: I know. I'm a bad GoT fan. I like guessing what'll happen next, but I don't like having things spoiled. Go figure. Also, I haven't read a GoT FanFiciton in recent…years.

Magnadroidz: Hopefully, as I move away from (what I'm calling) the rebirth, it'll become longer naturally. I can't promise every chapter will be longer, but I'll give it a try.

Chapter 3: Dires' Dirge

As the wolves' song reverberated throughout the Castle, Jon was struck suddenly by Ghost's howl. The dire wolf never howled. Jon had only imagined the wolf howling in his dreams—calling out for the other wolves or mourning his own death. Had Ghost cried in greeting or grief?

"Do we open the gates, sir?" One brave man finally broke the spell cast over Castle Black. His voice stirred the other brothers, like taking in fresh air after a night in a smoke-filled room.

"What do we do?" another man stuttered. And with his question, all of the Night's Watch erupted into whispered conversation, breathy mutterings of fear and awe.

"It's a woman and a child," called a guard standing at his post above the gate. Alisser Thorne tore his gaze from the very alive Bastard, searching for a touchstone among the other men of the Watch. He looked to the guard, who waited for someone's answer-his answer. Thorne opened his mouth to speak, nothing but air escaped.

"Raise the gates," he was quiet, but it carried. Jon Snow's voice alone stood out against the wind and the murmurs and the wolves. Those posted at the gate jumped into action after only brief hesitation. The hollow space between Snow's command and the Watch's action held a question: do we trust each other?

The gates opened, revealing a woman and a boy-Rickon. He looked so much like Robb. All Tully. He had been a happy baby, always smiling as he toddled after Bran or his mother. Now, Rickon was dirt-covered and frighteningly thin. A solemn line replaced the smile, twisting his young face into something far more mature than his ten years. In the eyes of his brother, Jon Snow reflected on his situation. He was naked, smudged with ashes, surrounded by the men who had attempted to kill him. And, against all odds-despite the stabbings, the fire-he had survived.

No wonder Rickon's face held no spark of recognition, Jon barely recognized himself. Somewhere in his past, at Winterfell, he must have met this woman. She seemed to know him, in spite of her obvious fear. But, she did not matter. His baby brother was still alive. And when Rickon finally recognized him, Jon Snow could have wept with relief.

"Jon?" Rickon said quietly, and then—with more force—he called out, "Jon!" Quick feet brought Rickon and his acceptance.

Rickon stopped just short of a hug. He instead stretched his hand out to the shiny, pink scars covering Jon's chest and stomach. Edd Tollett seemed to materialize at Jon's side, with an old cloak and an awkward shrug of his shoulders. Tollett would not make eye contact. Jon would worry about the men of the Night's Watch later. With his newly borrowed cloak wrapped around his shoulders, he knelt down to face the boy in front of him.

"Jon," Rickon started again, but his voice crumbled at the end. He had finally made it to Jon. He finally felt safe—even though he could tell something was not quite right here. Jon would make it all better. He and Osha were safe. Once they found Bran, everything would be okay again.

The fire of the hall at Castle Black crackled—a pale echo compared to the roaring flames that had brought Jon Snow back to life. Rickon slept in Jon's arms while the two dire wolves watched. Jon could feel another set of eyes spying the very small family reunion.

"He hasn't slept like that in a long time," Osha told Jon from across the table. She still viewed Snow with wary eyes and a decent amount of distrust—but it was to be expected. She heard the whispers of the other Crows. And she was Free Folk. They were naturally suspicious people.

"Huh," Jon responded with a non-committal grunt. Even as Rickon slept, his little fist gripped Jon's borrowed clothes as if Jon might disappear if he let go for even a second. They had traveled across the wall twice—and survived. Jon was indebted to Osha.

"We canna stay here," she began when Jon said nothing else. And, then, more quietly: "You canna stay here."

"I know," Jon said after a long pause. It was all Jon could think of after Rickon appeared. He would not live with himself if one of the Night's Watch were to hurt his brother—it hurt Jon that he even thought that they would. He figured that, even if he had not died in the fire, any obligations or oaths made to the Watch had.

The Red Priestess skulked out of the shadows before Jon or Osha had time to continue their conversation. Her red hair seemed to absorb the low light cast by the fire, glowing brightly in the otherwise dark room.

"Witch," Osha hissed under her breath. Jon Snow straightened his back and held Rickon a little closer.

"My lord," Melisandre said lightly. The men sitting on the other side of the hall grew silent, blatantly staring. Fear crept across many of their faces.

It appears we have an audience," she said before she sat down next to Jon Snow, "we must discuss your—" Jon Snow stopped the priestess short.

"Did you have anything to do with this?" even though his words were said quietly, they held as much steel as Fang.

"No, but I—" again Melisandre was cut off, but this time by Daavos Seaworthy.

"You have all you need to know," he called from across the hall, "stay as far away from that woman as is possible."


	4. Chapter 4

SoulMore: Thank you! I hope that you'll continue to like the postings.

I.C.2014: Could not agree with you more.

Kababaka: I'm trying! And I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to pick up where I last left our hero. I want the story to pick up its pace a little—but, dude, do nearly-dead men (and their stories) move slowly. Hopefully, I have written myself out of my last slow chapter, I've got some action planned.

Please let me know what you think-the good, the bad, and the ugly. I love reading your coments/reviews :)

Chapter 4: Slow Fizzle

Her eyes pierced him from across the room. Ser Davos Seaworthy could feel them even through the thick blanket of ale-her gaze chilled him to the bone. Davos had wholly committed himself to one of the oldest, most noble tasks: finding solace at the bottom of a tankard. It seemed the best and only course he could take, stuck as he was in Castle Black. Winter had settled in the North, holding everyone in her icy clutches.

After each cup was emptied of its contents, he did not feel the lightness of heart for which he had set out in search. Instead, the ale sloshed and settled heavily in the pit of his stomach. And, to make matters worse, the priestess's shadow doggedly persisted the corners of his vision. He wanted to leave this place, just as surely as the Stark bastard had crawled from the fire. In his mind, the hall's fire seemed to stir in its hearth, taunting him with its powerful, all-consuming flames.

In his mind's eye, he saw the fearful, twisted face of a little girl in a larger fire, replacing the inert body of Jon Snow; only, in his daydream, nothing was left alive to crawl from the ashes. If the Red Priestess was to be believed, her god was a greedy one who stole too many lives. He knew to his very soul that the princess was no longer of this world, and it broke him. For this, Davos would never forgive Stannis Baratheon. He had always been shrewd, scrupulous, and proud—but his pride had become tragic in the light of his new god's fire.

"What have ye' done to her?" Davos's voice was husky with unshed tears, his eyes still closed to the imagined horrors inflicted on Princess Shireen.

"I was wrong," the woman's confession was ripped out of her quietly, the source of her apparent shame unknown—was it a child's needless murder or the mere fact that she was wrong? A silence that settled over the hall, filled with questions and fear.

I was wrong to think that Stannis Baratheon was the king the Lord of Light wanted," she now looked toward Jon Snow, "that the House Baratheon would remain in its seat of power in Westeros."

"You're mad," Davos told Melisandre, slowly standing to face the depraved woman head on, "Can't ye' see how mad ye' are? Leave this man alone. Leave us all alone and go be with your precious god."

Jon Snow watched carefully, weighing his need for information against his distaste for the Red Priestess Melisandre. Something about her raised his hackles. Fortunately, the boy he held in his arms kept Snow from doing anything rash.

"Mad?"-she squared off, ready to face Davos's challenge—"Did he not crawl from his grave? Did I not kill the pretender, Renley, from leagues away?"

"What do you want from me?" Jon Snow interrupted before either Melisandre or Davos could continue their loud show down. They were only throwing words now, but Jon could feel the tension in the room crackle with pending violence. There had been enough of that in Castle Black.

"The Lord of Light has anointed you in the fire," she proclaimed softly, "you are alive for a reason."

"You said you had nothing to do with it," it being Jon's brush with death and subsequent survival. His heart raced at the mere thought of Melisandre and her Lord meddling with his life.

"I did nothing, but that does not mean the Lord of Light did not spare you—there is power in King's blood."

"Enough with your riddles," Jon was weary, but the weight of his brother's still sleeping form anchored him, "I have no more king's blood than Rickon. We are of the first men, but many Northerners share the same heritage. What does your Lord want from me?"

"You have walked away from your own funeral pyre," she looked at him with curiosity, "and yet you still insist that you are who were raised to be. Tell me, Jon Snow, when were you born?"

Desire and suspicion precariously balanced his thoughts as he stared at the Priestess. The rest of the hall stared at him. Could she really know who his mother was? Could she try to manipulate him, when even his Lord Father had obstinately refused to answer this most important question?

Jon stood slowly, careful not to wake Rickon. He looked to Osha, who was more than ready to leave Castle Black—let alone the great hall. Without so much as a word, both Jon and Osha stepped away from both the table and the Priestess. The Dire wolves rose in unison, flanking their humans. As the small party exited, the hall began to smolder with whispers.


	5. Chapter 5

Yesboss21: Words cannot express…that may be the nicest thing you could say about any FanFiction—THANK YOU!

Chapter 5: Lovely, Dark, and Deep

Osha cast sideways glances at Jon Snow as they walked away from the hall and though the bitter cold. He was not as delicate as his half-brothers, Bran and Rickon. His dark hair and long face unlike that of her Stark lordlings, begging the question: who was he? And, more importantly, could she trust the man with her charge's life or her own?

Jon felt her gaze, like a hot poker stabbing at him every few steps. The Free Folk were skeptical in the best situations. Her worry mixed with his own; he had been reborn from fire. For the love of the old gods, how had he survived? Who was he? Who was his mother? The question that had plagued him his entire life had become a crux, weighing him down.

"I need to go to the weirwoods," Jon told his walking companion. With each step taken from Melisandre, Jon knew he could not go back—metaphorically or literally. Deep in his marrow, Jon could feel the Red Priestess could not be trusted. His hackles rose at the thought of her influence sinking into his life like talons, as she had done with Stannis. Ghost growled softly. Maybe he could find answers somewhere else; his father had always consulted the old gods, maybe he would find something of substance there, too.

"Humph," Osha's breath came out angrily, "we're not to be going north again, Jon Snow. No good can come of it."

"It's just beyond the wall," he told her. They had crossed the courtyard and then stopped just outside of Jon's building. Only hours had passed since Olly had given him false hope that his uncle Benjen Stark had returned. But, with his brother alive and safe in his arms, Jon could not help but feel a small measure of happiness. Even with all of his worries—the betrayal of the Night's Watch, an army of white walkers, his missing uncle, and his own mysterious past—Jon Snow had been reunited with one of his half-siblings and another was still out there, somewhere.

"You're more like 'im than I expected," she said to Jon no longer looking at him. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the wall, slowly climbing up its side.

"More like whom?"

"The Little Lord Bran," she took a brief respite from her review of the wall to give a cursory glance into Jon's eyes, he was sure she saw more than just grey-black staring back at her. It was like she had seen his thoughts of Bran.

You've got a way about ye," she again fixed her stare at the wall, "and the way that white monster follows ye' around. It's unsettlin'."

"What do you mean? Is Shaggydog not as attached to Rickon?" Jon looked to the two wolves. Once the runt of his litter, Ghost was a frightfully large wolf-a giant mass of white fur and muscle in comparison to Shaggydog.

"Aye, he's fiercely protective of the boy," she nodded at the black wolf with approval. "But not like Bran is with his wolf," she finished carefully.

I thought," she started before Jon could respond, "I would never see this damned Wall again. Yet, 'ere I am. Nothing good hides behind that wall, Jon Snow."

"Do you think Bran is safe?" He asked Osha, but Jon had meant it as a prayer or plea to some higher power. _Keep Bran Stark safe_. She answered him anyway.

"Safe?" she shook her head sadly, "nothing is safe, especially on the other side of the Wall. But I think the Little Lord is alive, if that's what yer after."

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He knelt down in front of the heart tree. The red eyes of the godswood watched him as closely as Ghost's red eyes. The white direwolf crouched in the snow, Jon could feel the wolf's presence. He could almost see himself through those red eyes; and, then, like stepping through thin ice, Jon found himself not only imagining the direwolf's point of view. He could feel the crunching snow beneath the pads of his paws and the wind ruffling the fur on his back, he could see his own form motionless beneath the heart tree, he could hear hurried awkward footsteps, he could smell putrid decay.

And, just as suddenly as he had entered, with a gulp of air and a rush of blood to the head, Jon was back in his own body. He had crossed the wall in search of answers, and instead was barraged with more questions.

"Something is coming," Jon Snow announced loudly for his men to hear him over the wind. Eddison Tollett and three other men had followed Jon Snow across the Wall and into the weirwood. He stood up and pulled Longclaw from its scabbard in one smooth motion.

"What is it?" Tollett asked with panic rising in his voice. He trusted Jon Snow to the Seven Hells and back—had seen one of those hells with Jon when they had rescued the Wildlings. But, after witnessing the ruthless power of the dead, he was deathly afraid of dying at their cold, clammy hands. He pulled his own sword out.

"White walkers," Snow said with icy calm. The white direwolf paced behind Jon Snow.

"We have to get out of 'ere, Jon," another of the men said, backing away from the godswood in the direction of Castle Black, "there's nothing we can do. We haven't got any dragon glass."

With that, the men started to quickly move back toward Castle Black. None of them questioned how Jon Snow knew there was something out there.

And then the first white walker appeared. One of the men let out a scream; despite the warning, he had been taken by surprise. Jon Snow rushed to the white walker, Valyrian steel at the ready. With one decisive blow, the white walker shattered like glass—just like it had in Hardhome. When the other white walkers rushed toward the small group, Ghost and Jon worked in tandem to dispatch their enemy.

There had only been a handful, but the men all but ran back to Castle Black. There were always more dead.


	6. Chapter 6

Yesboss21: I hope this chapter answers some of your concerns (:

A/N: I wasn't 100% happy with this chapter, so I went through and edited it. The changes are minor, but I can sleep better knowing that they've been made. I've learned my lesson-I won't post until I've thoroughly edited my work. Please let me know if you have any _constructive_ criticism on my writing style.

Chapter 6: A Stark Snowscape

"Ye don't have to leave," Tollett said, again.

"I must," Jon Snow replied gruffly, looking not at Tollett but off into the distance. Dark and angry clouds were gathering along the horizon, bringing with them more snow. More death.

"Ye sent the wildling and the boy. They're fine there," Tollett argued, again, "ye are a man of the Night's Watch. We are yer brothers."

Eddison Tollett finished without conviction. The argument had begun passionately. He had believed everything he said to his Lord Commander, Jon Snow. However, with each rebuttal by Snow—calmly delivered, concisely thought out—his points continued to be at the disadvantage. Through Jon's negative, Tollett came to realize two things: Snow would not stay and the other Crows would be happy to see the back of him. Jon Snow had split Castle Black down the middle before; but, now, even the men who respected him were afraid him-Tollett, included.

"What will we do without ye? How are we supposed to fight the whitewalkers?"

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Snow fell in flurries around Jon and Ghost as they walked away from Castle Black. The wind howled as if she, too, were a wolf running freely through the North. Flakes settled heavily on Snow's shoulders. The weight of Long Claw's Valyrian steel dragged at Jon like never before—not unlike the weight of his promise to the Night's Watch. Was he selfish for leaving?

He arrived at the camp hungry and tired from his journey—while the distance was not great, the snow had covered the road with a thick blanket. Each step Jon had taken felt like five. He trudged through the Free Folk's camp, their small campfires spreading warmth even in the snowstorm. Jon's stomach protested at the smell of food cooking. He found Osha and Rickon sitting with Tormund. Of all the Free Folk, Jon Snow sent a tiny prayer to thank the old gods for sending Tormund to Rickon. Ghost bounded toward Shaggydog, snapping playfully at the other direwolf. Together, they disappeared from the circle. Jon watched them until he could not longer make out their forms against the horizon.

Tormund looked up from his conversation with Osha, in his eyes Jon saw wonder—not fear, as he had seen in the Night's Watch. With a nod from the redheaded warrior, Jon was passed a bowl of stew. He sat and hungrily downed his meal. Rickon slid from his seat next to Osha, and tepidly walked toward Snow. When finally he reached his big brother, Rickon slide into the open space next to Jon. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, the young boy began talking animatedly. He was happy to share his journey from Winterfell across the wall and then back again, Jon gave appropriate replies between spoonfuls. It all felt so wonderfully banal.

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Jon listened to the steady, sleep-heavy breaths of Rickon and Osha. Winter had reached the North in full force, but the tent was warm from their combined body heat. Jon's heart, too, felt warm. The ice that had covered it after hearing of each of his siblings' deaths had begun to melt. With that thought in mind, Jon drifted off into a more peaceful sleep than he had in years.

He was running, happy for what felt like the first time in years. It was cold, but he was made for the cold. He thrived in it. He heard the snap of a twig. Quietly, he crouched in the snow to move toward the sound. He looked to his brother, a dark outline against the white, and quickly moved into position. They were hunters. The best in the North. Despite the fact that his brother was as conspicuous in the snow as he was invisible, their prey would not know they were there until it was too late.

They were the best hunting partners. They knew each other, their blood silently communicated—they didn't need anything more than a look to know what needed to be done. Together, they lunged at the elk. He went for the jugular, his brother for the soft underbelly. There was immeasurable joy in bringing down a bull elk. They sank their teeth into the offal, the spray of blood red against the white snow. Oh, how sweet!

Jon woke suddenly, his forehead beaded with sweat and the metallic taste of blood still sticky on his tongue.

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As always, let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

Yesboss21: You're asking great questions—I hope that all will be answered in due time. As for the warg aspect, that is part of JRR Martin's character. I just wanted to catch up my Jon's story to where the books left him. I have a sneaking suspicion that eventually he will get there in the TV series.

NatalieLynn and C: Thank you! I hope you continue to like it.

Shinigami Merchant: I hope it continues to be somewhat interesting. But that first chapter is my baby. I really like how it turned out. So thanks! Also, I like the name—who doesn't love a little death?

Thank you for reviewing and following! I'm glad that y'all like it—even if the chapters tend to be on the shorter side (: I started this with the idea that the first chapter would be my last. Now I'm posting chapter seven. It's bananas.

One more A/N: I made terribly small changes to the last chapter—I was not entirely happy with what I had originally posted. If you ever have any **constructive** criticism regarding my writing style, I'd be happy to read it. That's part of the terrible joy of sharing one's work, right? Getting better? Okay, after the longest introduction ever…we now return to our regularly scheduled program.

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Chapter 7: _Roads Till I Reach You_

Sansa Stark had jumped from the walls of Winterfell hand-in-hand with Theon Greyjoy, at the peril of death she decided she could not live under the Bolton banner for another day.

Everything was dark and white at the same time. Nothing made sense—and, then, everything did. There was muffled yelling somewhere. She was surrounded by snow so deep she did not know which direction faced the heavens and which would take her to the seven hells. She moved each finger and each toe deliberately; it hurt, but she could do it. If it did not hurt so much, she would have laughed. She tried—but all that escaped her lips was a shaky moan.

Each inhale hurt, reminding her that she was, indeed, very alive. _I am alive_. It became a personal mantra she thought with every breath. Next to her, she could hear Theon beginning to move, too. They both had survived. Now, Sansa and Theon had to get as far away as they could from the Boltons. There was no love in Winterfell anymore; but one day soon there would be.

With the thought of little Rickon, Bran, and even Jon waiting for her at Castle Black, Sansa started to crawl away from their childhood home. Jon was right _, different roads sometimes lead to the same castle._ She was going to go farther north than she had ever dared. Yet, now she was braver than she had ever been. She could do it. She jumped-to death or salvation she had cared not—and now she would live. Passive Little Bird no more!

Together they quietly crawled from the wall's snowdrift and away from the angry shouting. Sansa imagined _him_ staring at that awful woman, bloody and broken on the flagstone. _He_ would not cry—Sansa imagined _him_ smiling as the blood thickened in the icy winds. She shuddered at the thought of what _he_ would do with the woman's body—with Sansa's if _he_ ever caught her. Thoughts of _his_ face pushed her forward faster than she could have imagined possible. Sansa and Theon were free from the snow's embrace, now they had to run.

"Come on, Theon," she whispered hoarsely. There was a copse of trees waiting for them, just beyond the reach of an arrow. They would have to get there quickly to avoid the Flayed Men. Covered in snow, her red hair tucked into her hood, Sansa Stark hobbled toward the woods she had played in as a child.

There was a hush in the forest. Sansa tried to imagine that she and Theon were playing hide-and-seek with her siblings. If only she looked in the right place, she would find Robb and Jon giggling together under brush. She looked up into the trees, picturing Bran hiding at the very top. When she closed her eyes, she could almost hear Arya whispering angrily to Rickon. Too little to understand the game, he never wanted to be left behind.

However, when she looked at Theon, he was not the Theon of her memories—he used to laugh at everything, he used to walk with his head held high. Now, he was barely a broken shadow of the young man with whom she had been raised. Reek. His jagged gait brought Sansa crashing back to reality. They moved from tree to tree, spurred on by the sounds of the chase. Every twig snap, every crunch of dried leaf against icy crisp snow forced them to quicken their shuffle and quiet the sounds of their labored breathing.

The forest of Sansa's memory was green—but winter had finally arrived. Her family's words were unlike the other Houses. She had thought, growing up, that she was far more Tully than Stark. But, as she ran away from the only place she had ever truly felt safe and loved, Sansa realized that she had finally been forged a Stark. Their motto did not indicate anything about her family. Instead, it was a warning that was always true. _Winter is coming._

Snow fell in thick sheets, swallowing the pair of misshapen cloaked figures in a swirling mass of white. The storm made their prison break both easier and more difficult. Sansa prayed for help from the old gods, the gods of the north and the wind and the wood. The Stark family's gods—maybe, just maybe, they would listen this time to a Stark's pleas.

Sansa and Theon trudged through snow that was rapidly growing in depth. They ran for what felt like hours, through the worst of the storm. When they stumbled upon a small campfire, the worst of the winds had died down. A young man Sansa recognized stoked the fire.

"Lady Brienne," he called as he looked up at Sansa and Theon. Two rabbits roasted over the flames, reminding both of the weary travelers that neither had brought food.

"What do you want, Poderick?" a woman called from the distance. And then she appeared. Lady Brienne of Tarth strode toward the squire, until she saw Sansa.

"Sansa Stark-" but before Brienne could say anthing else, a man called from inside the tent.

"Just kill me already!"

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Another A/N: Some general warg knowledge: Wargs are connected to their animal while awake, but often the connection begins in while dreaming (a la Bran). Furthermore, that connection gets stronger with time and practice, as all good things tend to do. Also, please let me know what you think J


	8. Chapter 8

Marvelmyra: I agree, trepidatiously would have been the word to use. Thank you. As for banal, I wanted to express that there was nothing happening—I don't know if I would choose normal were I to write it again, but I understand what you mean. I'll keep that in mind as I'm writing. Thank you for your input and for liking my story (:

NatalieLynn: I don't think I'll take that direction, but the Sight would be cool. Yeah, the Reek/Theon phenomenon probably needs to be addressed in the next chapter or two.

CortneyAdorkable: Thanks!

Chapter 8: Baring It All

The snow was deep and powdery fresh, a pure blinding white. It blanketed the North, hiding the bloody gore and struggle; but it could not erase the memories of horror and failure. As the saying goes, it was not so much of a bang as a whimper when Stannis Baratheon's world stopped. He was thoroughly defeated-could he bare it?

His campaign imploded; the battle for Winterfell was an inglorious slaughter by a cruel basterd bastard, Ramsay Bolton. The Lord of Light had abandoned him—if the god had ever existed. Stannis had seen Melisandre' power, but maybe she was the witch Seaworthy had repeatedly cautioned him against. Regardless, Stannis made his own choices. He now carried the weight of them on his shoulders—could he bare it?

As the captive (or ward, he had yet to figure out his role) of Lady Brienne, he waited for death. He no longer had reason for life. The irony of a Tarth avenging a Baratheon out of loyalty against a Baratheon was not lost on Stannis. With Stark dead and Tarth pitted against him, the House Baratheon had lost all good will. But, he did not deserve any. He committed fratricide and, more recently, filicide. Her cries for his help seemed to echo in the evergreens—could he bare it?

Death would have been relief. The Lady Brienne must have known. Stannis was sentenced, instead, to life—could he bare it?

"You have been to Castle Black?" the redheaded girl was talking to him, now. She had been talking for quite some time, but Stannis had chosen to listen to the wind instead. The chattering of young birds could not pierce his darkness. He only grunted his affirmation.

"Did you see a boy there by the name of Jon Snow?" With a resigned sigh and a withering look, the last Baratheon looked at the girl. She repeated herself: "Jon Snow. Did you see him?"

"Yes," he said with finality.

…..

The world was clean again. Winter had truly come to Westeros and Sansa felt lighter than the crisp northern air. She was a free bird, no longer caged by a mad king or a cruel husband. She was not just alive; she was reborn and better than ever as the motley crue crew marched even farther north. She would not consider any other direction. Her brothers had not died in Winterfell. They could be waiting for her with Jon at Castle Black.

If she thought she could run there, she would try. But there were still several days before her small party would be able to see the wall. The thought of Rickon, Bran, and even Jon spurred her forward. While her feet were trudging through snow as deep as her thighs, her heart soared. Her nose stung from the biting cold—but she imagined that, instead, it was with the ache to bury it in the warm coat of a Direwolf.

...

**A/N: Let me know what you think!

I promise that I'll post the next chapter by October 14th-but thank you to everyone for sticking with me for the past eight chapters (and, hopefully, the upcoming chapters).


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Hearth and Home

The fire in her fueled the entire trip north to the Wall. The days they spent in the snow and cold passed slowly, giving Sansa time to study her travel companions at length. Her burning desire was a sharp contrast to both Stannis Baratheon's complete lack of will and Theon's fear. She could see it etched in every line on his young face—lines that had not existed the last time she had seen him. Sometimes, Sansa barely recognized him so little did he resemble the boy who had grown up in the halls of Winterfell. She could not forgive him, but he paid dearly for his betrayal of her family.

One day, Sansa would walk next to Theon and they would be silent. But, other days, Sansa could hear Theon talking to himself. All the worries that Sansa had about returning to the Boltons' cruelty was muttered quietly and lost in the wind as the forged a path off of the King's Road, through tall trees. It was worse at night; Theon would wake from his night terrors screaming. His screams, Sansa feared, would bring their captors to them, like a lighthouse draws a ship to shore. Lady Brienne somehow managed to quiet Theon each night.

Lady Brienne was in the lead for most of the journey, her back straight even in the harshest winds. For the most of the journey, she was silent as she scanned the horizon. Sansa imagined Lady Brienne was a statue, quiet, strong and angular. She never wavered, always sure of herself. Even the Lady's colors were washed out—white blonde and pale—like marble stone.

Poderick, on the other hand, was round everywhere. He bumbled in everything—his movements and speech seemed full. He filled spaces, doing or saying something so that nothing never existed. Once, Sansa would have found relief in the something that Poderick always provided; but, now, she considered his small talk unnecessary—a distraction even. Sansa wanted to focus solely on her feet—and how each step brought her closer and closer to where she wanted and needed to be.

Once the Wall was a smudge on the horizon, Sansa rushed ahead.

The wall loomed in the distance-it stretched beyond the clouds and into the very heavens. She had seen the hells, now she had a chance to see what a cloud looked like from the other side. Sansa wondered if that was why they were called Crows: they perched on the wall like birds, high above Westeros. Maybe from his vantage, Jon could see the small party walking slowly toward the wall.

They continued the last day's trek through snow and wind to reach Castle Black. They had spent the better part of the month wishing they could be where they were now—in sight of the Wall. Yet, as the white expanse against the horizon grew, Sansa tried to ignore the dread building in the very pit of her stomach. Their journey had been too easy.

…..

The heavy smack of gloved hand to hard wood sent a rush of fear to the very pit of Reek's stomach. Last time, Lord Ramsay had found Reek. Last time, everything changed. What would Reek lose this time?

Not Reek, he thought abysmally. Theon. I am Theon. Bolton had taken from him many things (his mind being chief among them), but marching several days in the blasted cold had cleared his thoughts. Slightly. It was like the flickering of a candle in the wind. Sometimes he was himself, and then—crunch. The snap of a twig would send him into a complete loss of direction, like a ship caught in the mighty swells of a stormy sea. Except, when Theon stopped being Theon it was nothing like a ship. It was like drowning. Or worse. Like not existing at all. All he knew as Reek was fear, deep-seeded and relentless. Where had the Ironborn gone?

Instead of the Bolton, pale and cruel, there was only a giant wooden door and a great, blindingly white wall of ice—like nothing he had ever seen before.

A small door slid open to reveal the face of a man, beady eyes and a patchy beard of several days' growth.

"Yeh?" the man spat out to the party, "What do ye want?"

"We want to be let in," Lady Brienne demanded.

"Oh," the man said with a snicker, "Do ye now? Who died and made ye king?" As he made to close the sliding door in Lady Brienne's face, an indistinguishable, muffled bark could be heard on the other side of the door.

"But, ser—"

"I am Stannis Baratheon," Stannis spoke for the first time in days. Theon was surprised that he still could.

"I remember ye," said the guard, he closed the small door on his conversation with his borther Crow. Minutes passed and then scarred wooden door swung open, permitting them entrance into Castle Black. Sansa grabbed Theon's hand and squeezed hard. She had pulled him from the sea; she had saved him from drowning. He would earn her trust again and, one day, her forgiveness.

"We have traveled from Winterfell—" Lady Brienne began, but was interrupted by a gruff man, with a barrel chest and angry eyes.

"What happened to your men?" he looked to Stannis for answers.

"All gone," Stannis said quietly to the man. And then, more quietly to himself he said, "they're all gone and it is all my fault."

"I am Lady Brienne of Tarth and this is Lady Sansa," she inserted herself into the conversation, heedless of the horror on the old Crow's face or the albatross of sorrow hanging from Stannis Baratheon's neck.

"Allisser Thorne, Lord Commander of Castle Black," he said as he made his way toward them across the courtyard. Stannis was surprised.

"What happened to Snow?"

"He…" the Lord commander appeared uncomfortable before settling on his answer, "he left. He's now living with the Wildlings south of the wall." Sansa's grip tightened to the point of pain.

…..

Maybe this was the fear that bubbled in her stomach; Jon was not where she thought he was. But, as they followed the man from the Night's Watch to the Wildling camp, Sansa still felt the wrongness in her gut.

Fingers of smoke curled toward the sky just above the trees. A slight breeze brought smells of food and even the faints murmurs of conversation. When finally they reached the camp, the conversation had died. But it didn't matter.

Sansa only hesitated for a moment, and then she ran as fast as the snow would let her toward her brother, who also moved toward her. Jon wrapped her in a hug so tight she could barely breathe. For a moment, the dread subsided and all she could do was cry in Jon's arms. His shoulders shook slightly. A small pressure at her hip forced Sansa's attention away from Jon's embrace.

"Rickon!" she cried out. All three siblings held each other, until Sansa turned toward Jon and asked: "Where's Bran?"

….

Poderick busied himself in the Wildling camp. There was always something to be done and once someone figured out that you could be useful, that someone usually used you. It was good to feel as if he was doing something helpful—important, even. People often forgot about the person who was just there. Poderick heard more than people realized.

While he was refreshing the horses and managing what supplies he and Lady Brienne still had, he heard two things that seemed more important than the gossip-mongers realized: a witch had taken up residence in Castle Black and a seemingly dead Jon Snow rose out of his funeral pyre as if nothing had happened. News travels slowly in Westeros. Poderick wondered if they had heard of the dragon queen across the Narrow Sea and the rumor that she was impervious to flame. Certainly, the threat of what lay just beyond the Wall had not reached the South.

"Lady Brienne," he whispered, "I need to tell you something." He caught her walking toward their tent. She looked exasperated, until Poderick relayed his overheard gossip as well as his thoughts on what to do with the information.

...

"You know not of what you ask," Melissandre angrily repeated.

"But, you're a…" Poderick paused, "a witch. We just need to send a message. Can you try?"

"I am a priestess," she said darkly, "of the Lord of Light. And I would need blood. King's blood." Lady Brienne and Poderick turned to each other, perturbed.

"Stannis," Poderick said after some thought, "he's somewhere in the castle."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10: Dark Days Ahead

Castle Black is teeming with dark, damp corridors. Down one such corridor, there is a door to a room stacked with dusty crates containing hundreds of years of junk that has long been forgotten. Tonight, however, light cheerily flickers from the crack under the door and a conversation dully reverberates through the wood. Someone suddenly lets out a laughing groan that turns into a coughing fit.

Once he managed to stop coughing, Stannis stood upright. The fresh slashes across his wrist were so deep; flashes of white bone could be seen beyond the mess of pooling blood. His hands hung useless and limp from the ends of his arms-his tendons were severed and useless. He would rightly pay for his sins with all of himself. He watched as his blood dripped heavily from his gashed wrists and into a fire that no longer seemed cheery. It greedily accepted his offering as kindling. The fire must have recognized his flesh and his blood, steadily growing as he fed it—he wondered briefly why the Priestess thought he would satiate her hungry god this time.

Then, he dragged his thoughts back from philosophizing and to his present: he felt his blood coursing through his veins in a way that made life feel more real. Panic slipped quietly into his heart; but too proud and too stubborn to turn back, Stannis shakily held his head high and thought of Shireen's favorite stories. The edges of his world faded a dull greyish black and the tips of his fingers grew colder, as if he held them for too long under icy waters. Shivering, he closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness—all he could hear were his daughter's cries for his help and his wife's body gently swinging in the still air.

"The connection is weak. I cannot guarantee she receives the message," Melissandre said simply, turning away from the fire.

"What?" Lady Brienne looked at the woman with horror.

Poderick held Stannis' now cold hand, wondering what he had done and praying he had not killed a man without reason.

….

Dragonless and alone, Daenerys Targaryen was terribly outmatched. She had considered briefly fighting the horde—but as she had already come to the former conclusion, she did not resist her captors. Fear clawed at her, like a dragon trying to rip her from the inside out; but she was the Mother of Dragons and she would put this one to rest. The steppe was not a place to show weakness.

She did not protest as they bound her hands behind her back. She did not fight when the y made her walk behind as they rode. Instead, Dany listened.

"Do you see her?"

"Do you think it is…?"

"What will the Khal do with her?"

Dany, too, considered what the answers might be. Her presence made the Khalasar anxious-as it should. They had abandoned her.

Gathered around a bonfire, Dany watched the flame. The cracking and snapping of the small dry brush provided a steady base for the myriad of conversations running through the Dothraki smells of the Khalasar,horse and leather, mixed with the smoke, making the air heady. Suddenly, what was hazy and transparent grey smoke was an opaque, swirling darkness that seemed to look at and through the crowd. Daenerys Targaryen felt as if the eyeless being saw her. And, then, it raised a wavering limb toward her.

She was struck by terrible images she had never seen before: a child dying in a fire, a sea of endless white, and an old stone castle filled with scared men. One thought mixed with their fear struck her so powerfully, she doubled over: _Come home. Help us, Dragon_.

The Khalasar was deathly quiet.


End file.
